Once In Crime-y London's City
by Spockologist
Summary: In response to Hades' infamous Christmas Challenge. A collection of one-shots, stories, poems and whatever else comes this holiday season. Non/Slash
1. Chapter 1

**I can't believe I'm writing Sherlock Holmes again. Nor can I believe so many of you are still on here. It's like walking into a room of old friends. I feel beyond rusty. But, Hades challenge beckoned and I had to comply.**

 _ **Prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead: A Quarter Past One.**_

It was a quarter past one in the afternoon. The weak winter sunlight filling the flat did little to alleviate the drowsy feeling in the room. On the mantle, the clock counted the seconds dutifully as one of Holmes's concoctions of Thames water and old leather boiled on the Bunsen burner in the corner. I was alone in our flat and the stillness of the rooms was oddly comforting.

While the smell of soggy leather was not pleasant, the sound of the water boiling was soothing and I soon found myself setting aside my novel to stretch out on the settee. I had taken a rather embarrassing fall on the ice the afternoon prior and my leg had yet to forgive me for it. Holmes was out on private business and I was using my time to coddle myself with Robert Louis Stevenson's _Caitriona,_ a cup of tea and some of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. Had Holmes been around, he most certainly would have offered ridicule at my leisure and prodded me into some sort of mad dash around town. But, the detective was not at home and I was enjoying my solitude.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, the afternoon sunlight had dissipated and Holmes's lean figure was standing in front of the fireplace, my novel in his hands. He was turning the pages slowly, his pipe clenched tightly between his teeth. After a moment's interest, his attention wandered and he tossed the book onto an empty table.

"The Appin murder. I'm surprised you would reach such a novel."

I sat up stiffly, the settee was not fit for lying down on. Holmes had moved to the burner and was examining the contents of the small pot with an impassive face. "I enjoy his writing." Came my response.

"Never mind that." Holmes had already forgotten Stevenson. "I was near the wharf today and I believe I may have discovered something that may help us in the Dayton case. A shipment of undocumented wares is intended to be loaded onto the American bound _Saint Margaret._ Do you feel up for a bit of a watch tonight? You've slept the afternoon away so you can't tell me you're not rested."

I hid a smile. My guess in Holmes poking fun at my lazy afternoon had proven to be correct. "I can accompany you." I stood and glanced at my bedridden expression in the mirror. "When shall we leave?"

"At a quarter past one." Holmes responded, heading down the stairs on some new mission. "And bring your revolver."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead: Write a steampunk!Holmes one-shot.**_

Holmes hated the airships. They were too large, too loud and too modern. "Why can't we just take a self-propelled hansom?" he complained. "They get us there just as quickly without half the fuss."

"Because soon hansoms will go the way of the cart horse." I flicked my newspaper open and watched the images dance across the page. "You had better get used to the progress of humanity."

"Ah, yes." Holmes said sarcastically. "The progress of humanity. How positively mediaeval of me to wish for slower times."

"You have to admit," I waved the tea-service bot closer to our table. "Medicine has evolved rapidly; the city is expanding. Lives are longer lived. Steam power has its benefits."

"I'm disappointed in you." Holmes took the offered cup from the expressionless tea-bot. "You were always the romantic one. I thought it would be you lamenting the loss of the old fashioned, not me."

"I enjoy new inventions." I held up a hand to stop the amount of sugar being poured into my cup. "The surgery on my leg has been a success. I no longer feel any pain. Crime rates have been lower as…" I trailed off as Holmes's scowl deepened. "Is that what this is about? A lack of criminal activity?"

"It's disgusting." Holmes shooed the waiting bot away and sank lower in his seat. "Everyone has what they've always wanted. Why commit crime when everything is so readily available? Where are the murders? The thefts? With the invention of steam power, why are we not seeing an increase in more powerful weapons? It's a conspiracy just waiting to be uncovered." He took a cautious sip of his tea. "Who's to say those tin robots always carting tea services aren't listening devices for the Queen's army? What would happen if a drug was slipped into my beverage as I chatted idly away on this expansive airship? No, I like things I can control, things I know to be calculated. This new age is too consuming for my taste."

I sighed and looked out the window at the fast approaching airstrip. "Despite your many paranoias, you have to admit that airships do have the speed of travel on their side."

"Are we here already?" Holmes slammed his teacup on the table and craned his neck to peer out the window. "Well, would you look at that. Perhaps this wasn't too terrible an idea after all." 


	3. Chapter 3

_**Prompt from Book Girl Fan: Left out in the cold.**_

It was with anger in my heart that I stomped up the thirteen steps to my old address at 221b Baker Street. The door not locked and I pushed my way in without bothering to knock. Holmes was sitting in the armchair near the fire, his ragged robe draped upon his shoulders. He reacted to my sudden arrival with merely the raise of a quizzical brow and gestured for me to take a seat.

"A fight with Mary, I deduce?"

"She's being impossible." I shook my head at the tea he offered and he wisely pushed the bottle of brandy my way instead. "First it's the china hutch from her grandmother, then it's the fact that I'm away with clients and never home for dinner on time. It's not as if I can control the weather. This time of year always sees a rise in influenza and what am I to do? Leave them all out in the cold so I can be home for supper with my wife?"

Holmes said nothing, but steepled his fingers against his lips.

"Honestly," I drank the brandy in one quick swallow. "I have to provide for my family. Being home right on time every night is an impossible task."

"Is it, John?" His use of my Christian name surprised me and I blinked as he calmly lit his pipe and leaned back in his chair. "I am not one privy to the nature of marriage and relationships," he took a careful puff and extinguished the match. "But I understand that when one enters into such a commitment, that there are promises made that provide a foundation for a successful couple." He pointed his pipe at me. "I remember you promised Mary to be home for dinner every night."

"I did not!"

"Yes, in this very room. You were engaged to be married in two months and whilst I was trying to solve the case involving the blind twins, you were making foolish promises to your sweetheart near the window. It was terribly inconvenient timing not to mention distracting to my work."

"Fine," I rolled my eyes. "Whilst in the star struck stage of lovers, I made impossible promises not practical enough to be kept by the chains of marriage."

Holmes made no sound of disapproval, but closed his eyes and let the sweet scent of tobacco fill the room. As he smoked, I found myself fuming. How dare he try to patch my marriage and offer me advice. He! The notorious bachelor of London. As if he remembered a promise I had made to my own wife that I could not.

"Do stop glaring like that." Holmes said drowsily. "And don't grind your heel into the carpet. Mrs. Hudson would be terribly displeased."

I held still. The fire crackled. Holmes opened one eye to study me. I scowled back in return.

"Don't be so patronizing." I chided. "Just because I chose to marry doesn't make me any less."

"I never said that."

"I can see it on your face."

"You see incorrectly. I was just thinking of what a pity it is you're letting this squabble get between you and your wife during the holiday season. Mary always loves this time of year and here you are spoiling it."

I ignored him. "That's what married people do. They bicker over silly things that don't matter."

"Like your patients."

"Like my- Holmes," I shook my head. "My clients are important. They are individuals with lives and families. They help pay for my household."

"And yet," Holmes stood to look out the window. "You value them over the household you claim so much to defend."

I fell silent. Holmes, ever the brain and never the heart, was gently reminding me that my obligations were not as black and white as I often saw them as. Mary deserved a husband who could join her for meals as often as a physician's schedule allowed. I would close early tomorrow night and surprise her. It would do us both good to revisit our relationship.

"But what of your clients?" Holmes was reading my every thought. "Left out in the cold as you so dramatically stated?"

"They'll have to cope." I rose and pulled on my coat. "I'll be open again the day after."

"An excellent idea."

I turned to go and his voice called me back.

"Oh, and, Watson." Holmes had the faintest hint of a smile. "About that china hutch belonging to Mary's grandmother…"


	4. Chapter 4

_**Prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead: Watson and/or Holmes have to go to trial.**_

 _ **I have no idea why I wanted to attempt a poem, but I did. I am no Mrs. P, so no judging. (PS. THIS IS TERRIBLE) My rhyming skills are subpar. I also don't know anything about the British legal system so...**_

It was a mistake.

Wrong time,

Wrong place,

That found the good doctor rather tight-laced.

The crime was committed,

The deed had been done,

It was with heavy heart, that the culprit was one,

Watson of Baker street, a doctor by calling,

Had done the deed that caused everyone galling.

The evidence fact,

The proof absolute,

A trial was coming to give him the boot.

"Death!" cried the jury, convinced of his sin,

"But wait!" cried the people, "He must certainly win.

"Watson is no criminal, he did nothing wrong,

"It was a mistake that brought this whole thing along!"

Watson stood still amid the cries,

His head bowed to their pleas,

He was not one to cry, but he fell to his knees.

Holmes had not come, had not given the answer,

There was no hope left, there was no advancer.

His case would end here, amid yelling and shouts,

His fate was sealed, his life going out.

The door burst open, to everyone's eyes,

The stalwart detective declared it all lies.

"Watson is innocent! There is no truth to your claim!"

The man before you was certainly framed!"

Holmes laid forth the evidence, called it all fact.

The jury debated this way and that.

"It is with consideration we hear your case,

"The doctor is innocent! Get out of this place!"

Freed from the shackles of guilt and blame,

Watson felt himself grinning, no longer ashamed.

Back home to Baker Street, a leisurely pace,

As Holmes wandered on relating the case.

"It was a simple matter,

"Your gun, the blood spatter."

On and on until home went the story,

About how Holmes had bungled the thing rather poorly.

"I'm sorry, dear fellow,"

"The thing ran amuck,

"I found myself hopelessly, terribly stuck.

"But the case has been solved, the blame's long acquitted,

"Let's get you upstairs to that quilt Hudson knitted.

"A good rest is long due,

"Let my clients stand queue,

"Up the stairs, there you go."

"Bring out the Bordeaux."

Glasses were filled, chairs settled in,

Thus ended the night of Watson's trialing win.


	5. Chapter 5

_**From Hades Lord of the Dead: No-Win Scenario**_

 _ **This is still more quantity over quality as I try to catch up.**_

The gun pressed against Holmes's temple was all I could focus on. The cold metal weapon was unpredictable in the hands of its owner, Doctor Graves. We had followed the trail too closely this time. We had run hot on his heels and discovered an unstable and reckless man. Already, the show of this manic doctor's behavior lay scattered across the parlor floor. His wife's glass figurines lay in shards, the bookcase was tilted against the wall. Somewhere in the house, a dog barked incessantly.

Holmes looked calm. His gray eyes were slightly wider than their normal observing slit, but his voice was level as he spoke. "Doctor, would you please hand the revolver to my companion? We can discuss this civilly."

Doctor Graves jolted at his words and held the gun tighter into his skull. "It's too late. It's too late. They're coming for me. My dear Anne knows what I've done. She'll never forgive me. I've got nothing left to lose."

We were dealing with a man gone suicidal. Holmes was staring at me with an expression I could not decipher as the doctor blathered onward about the debts he'd run up, the patients he'd swindled. He had been experimenting with opiates and created a drug solution, then self-injected, resulting in insanity. Holmes had first taken the case with interest in the solution, but as the plot had thickened, the case was much darker than it first appeared.

"Stop!" Graves barked at me as I attempted to reach my revolver on the table. "I'll kill him. I swear I will. I may have made a few mistakes, but nothing will win me more fame than the man who killed the infamous Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes was fiddling for something in his trouser pocket. I saw the flash of metal and was surprised to see him pull out a letter opener he had pocketed at breakfast. Had he seen this coming?

"Doctor Graves." I tried my best soothing voice. "William, set down the gun. We can help you."

"It's too late." He laughed. "It's far too late. Anne will never forgive me. Not for this."

"You don't know that." I tried not to watch Holmes slowly raising the letter opener. "She loves you.

The front door kicked in. The dog's yelping intensified. Graves spotted the letter opener as the men from Scotland Yard filled the room. He shoved Holmes away from him and fired blindly as I cried out in surprise.

"Holmes!"

"Hands where we can see them!"

The dog's barks ceased. The men lowered their weapons. Holmes clutched the letter opener tightly as we stared down at Doctor Graves lifeless body.

Holmes turned away in disgust. Whether he was disappointed in the suicide or the loss of a successful case conclusion, I could not tell.

"A win for neither me, nor the doctor it would seem."


	6. Chapter 6

_**Prompt from Winter Winks 221: Magic Magnifying Glass**_

 _ **Thanks to all who have reviewed. It's quite the boost to my delicate writer's ego.**_

Holmes paused on the landing, hearing muffled voices playing down the alley. He pretended to search for his keys as he listened to the voices of the Irregulars bickering over roles before settling into some sort of organized game. Holmes forgot the pretense of his keys and peered around the brick corner of the house to spy on the boys.

"Oy! Wut's the crime then?" George was strutting towards a fallen Adamson pretending to be dead. "Is it murder then?"

"Appears so, guv." Wiggins nodded solemnly. He had taken soot from the refuse pile and smeared it on his upper lip in the appearance of a moustache. "Olmes?"

Samuel Cartwright, the latest addition to their ranks, puffed out' his chest and pulled a broken piece of glass from his pocket. Crouching over a giggling Adamson, he muttered to himself before announcing. "Murder! Fetch the constable!"

"Constables right here," Wiggins nudged him and pointed to George. "Remember? They called us on the case."

"Right, right." Samuel straightened his filthy collar. "'E's been offed by the lady!"

"His missus?" George's brow furrowed. "I thought we agreed it would be Davie. He's playin' the murderer."

"Nah," Samuel spit on the ground next to Adamson's hand. "Twas the missus!"

"How do ye know? Ye ain't 'Olmes!"

"It's me magic magnifying glass, it is." Samuel waved the broken glass shard above his head. "And for the sake of the game, I am Mr. 'Olmes."

"I wanted to be 'im!" Adamson forgot to play dead and sat up to reach for the glass. "Ye always be bossin us around. Why should ye get the part?"

Samuel held the glass higher as the other boys swarmed him. "We drew straws! Shove off!"

"Davie's the murderer!" George was near shouting. "Let 'im 'ave a turn!"

Holmes should have stopped the fight before it broke out, but a threw punches were thrown and before he could step in, the glass shard slipped, cutting Samuel's wrist before shattering on the ground.

"Ye broke it!" Adamson whined. "Now we ain't got a magnifier!"

"Forget the glass," Wiggins stepped in to examine Samuel's wound. "He's cut 'is self."

"He deserved it!" George was nursing a split lip. "Ought to cut 'is 'ead clean off!"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen." Holmes stepped off the porch and into their ranks. "That's enough rough housing for today. Head inside and wash up. Samuel, Doctor Watson is upstairs and can see to your wrist. George, a wet cloth is all you need. No, don't argue." He ushered them into the flat and set his hat on the entry table. "If you all promise to behave, Mrs. Hudson may have a few biscuits lying around."

There were cheers followed by more shoving and Holmes leveled them all with a look that sent them all meekly headed for the washroom. Holmes placed a hand on Samuel's back and guided him up the stairs.

"Let's get you to the real Doctor Watson shall we?"

"Yes, Mr. "Olmes."


	7. Chapter 7

_**Prompt from Book Girl Fan: Secret Santa at Scotland Yard.**_

 _ **I am in the middle of a group project for school and don't tell Holmes, but I'm ready for murder. I WORK BETTER ALONE!**_

It started with the cigarettes.

A box of Woodbines left on the desk of a retiring constable, then a hot meal delivered while they were out on patrol.

Who could it be?

The new bloke trying to butter his way up the ranks?

Or perhaps the kind landlady over at 221 Baker Street? She was always stopping by with biscuit tins and knitted gloves during the holiday season.

Lestrade lowered himself into his chair with a thoughtful expression. Gregson had just received a brown paper parcel and was studying it with a look as if the contents were lethal. For a moment, Lestrade was put out that he did not yet have a gift, but if the package in Gregson's hands turned out to be nefarious, he would count his blessings.

"Ho! Gregson!" Doctor Watson said cheerfully as he made his way towards Lestrade's desk. "An early Christmas gift?"

"It appears so, sir."

"Who from?"

"It doesn't say."

"Ah, an admirer?" the doctor winked with a grin. Everyone enjoyed teasing Gregson on his influx of lady friends ever since he had sprouted that moustache. Lestrade found it ridiculous, but it did the officer good to have someone boosting his self-esteem.

Gregson flushed. "No, sir. I don't believe so."

"Go on, open it."

Lestrade half-rose from his desk to watch the paper being ripped open. The contents didn't appear to be dangerous, no plume of smoke or screams. "Oy! Gregson! What is it?"

"A kit for my moustache." Gregson's flush deepened. "A nice one too."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and fell back into his chair with a grumble. Perfect. Now the boy's moustache would become more of an obsession than it already was. Shuffling through papers, Lestrade glanced up as Doctor Watson settled himself into the chair across his desk. "What can I do for you, doctor?"

"Holmes sent me for the Larson case files."

"Ah, of course. I left them right here…"

The inspector busied himself looking for the file while keeping an eye on the doctor. Could he be the kind-hearted culprit? It was in his nature to do so. His colleague, Mr. Holmes didn't seem the sort. Slowly, he set the folder in front of them. "A kind gesture for Gregson, don't you think?"

"Oh, certainly." Watson smiled again. "I love this time of year."

"The Yard has been very blessed this year. Someone has been leaving gifts rather frequently."

"Really?" the doctor sounded genuinely surprised. "How thoughtful."

"It's become a bit of a game here to figure out the source." Lestrade leaned back in his chair. "Perhaps we'll send Mr. Holmes on the job."

Watson laughed as he picked up his cane and hat. "He'd find the idea absurd and you know it." The folder was picked up next. "Thank you, Inspector." He tipped his hat. "Good luck catching your secret Saint Nicholas."

Lestrade smiled demurely and waited for the doctor to reach the front door before whistling for Gregson and Clarke. "You two aren't doing anything. Follow Doctor Watson and see where he goes.

"But, sir-

"Just do it." Lestrade returned to his paperwork. "I want to get to the bottom of this." 


	8. Chapter 8

_**Prompt from Word Wielder: Peppermint**_

 _ **I am not in a writing mood… I'm hungry and I want a coloring book.**_

As was the custom with this time of year, my practice was overrun with patients complaining from the common cold. My notepad was constantly full of lists for the chemist and apothecary as I scribbled down notes for medicines tinctures and syrups. It was only a matter of time before I myself was taken ill and it was with a pounding headache that I found myself unable to face the day one cold December morning.

I was lying in bed at half past eight when Holmes came knocking at the door. "Watson? Are you ill? The hour is rather late."

"I'm fine."' I coughed as he opened the door. "Just a bit of a cold, that's all."

"Hm," Holmes frowned as I rose to dress. My head was aching and my cough was terrible. After a moment's contemplation, he grabbed my arm and steered me back towards bed. "Take a rest, old chap. There's nothing that needs to be done today that can't wait until tomorrow."

"No," I protested. "I'm fine."

"Rubbish." Holmes waited to verify that I was indeed staying put before moving towards the door. "I'll ask Mrs. Hudson to prepare a tray for you. Her peppermint tea is excellent and should help do the trick."

"Thank you, Holmes." I let my eyes close as my head sunk into the pillow. "I'll be up in a few hours."

The door closing was the last thing I heard.


End file.
